


Our Feet But Not Our Hearts

by colazitron



Series: Fic Advent 2013 [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colazitron/pseuds/colazitron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts. (Oliver Wendell Holmes)</p>
<p>Harry comes back from tour, not expecting to come <i>home</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Feet But Not Our Hearts

Harry takes in a deep breath and slowly pushes it out between pursed lips, holding the key to his flat up to the door. He wishes coming back here felt more like _coming home_ than coming back to a temporary living arrangement cause he's gotta stay _somewhere_ when he's in London. When he looks down the door mat reads 'You Again?' and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch with a little smile. Him again indeed.

 

"Okay," he mumbles to himself and turns the key in the lock, pushing the door to swing open. Instead of the cold of a flat that hasn't been heated in longer than London has turned cold in the early winter and the dusty, haunted emptiness of You Again?, he's greeted with a pleasant warmth and the sweet smell of herbs and simmering tomatoes. What the...? There are only so many people with keys to his flat.

 

Ed's in LA and out of the question.

 

(Harry did definitely not set that vase of fresh pretty flowers on the side board in the living room.)

 

Nick just regretfully turned him down for dinner cause he's got work obligations.

 

(Harry did also not buy those pillows on his sofa. At least not the covers.)

 

Which leaves...

 

Gemma. Stood in his kitchen, grey favourite joggers tucked into grey socks, a faded blue t-shirt and one of Harry's jumpers discarded over the back of a chair. Her hair's a little frazzled where it's pulled up into a bun as she stirs what Harry is sure is bolognese sauce and pretends not to know he's there. The grin tugging at his cheeks now is so bright it hurts his cheeks a bit.

 

(When Harry was eleven and Gemma was fourteen and their mum left them home alone for the first time the only meal Gemma knew how to cook was spaghetti bolognese. They've since cooked it over and over and the simple pre-packaged sauce from the glass has been gradually replaced with fresh herbs, red wine and a sprinkle of cinnamon. It's the best thing Harry's ever had every time he has it.)

 

He's vibrating with wanting to go over and wrap her up in his arms and hug her tight until he feels at home again, but she's still pretending she hasn't noticed him and, like, _hot, boiling things_.

 

She does put him out of his misery then though, turning around with a grin to match his that confirms she's really known he's been there all along and meeting him in the middle of the kitchen to go on her tip-toes and wrap her arms around his neck as he wraps his own around her waist and pickes her up a bit. She laughs and tightens her arms and snuggles her face into his neck.

 

"Welcome home," she mumbles into his skin.

 

Harry sets her down, but doesn't let her go. He hunches over to pull her closer instead. Yeah, now it's home, he thinks.

 

**The End**


End file.
